Touch Me Babe
by izzylane
Summary: McCoy is having a bad week for many reasons, space flu being the least of it.


**Touch Me Babe (McCoy/Chekov)**

McCoy is an excellent doctor, but a terrible patient.

* * *

"I'm a doctor, not a damn patient," McCoy grumbled, muscles quivering under the strain of holding in his hacking coughs. Christine Chapel just clicked her tongue at him and continued to run the scanner over his head and chest.

He looked terrible, had looked terrible for the last few days but was only now sitting still enough for her to do something about it. His eyes were red and had deep dark circles under them from lack of sleep and pushing himself to hard. The usual workaholic habits he got away with far too often did not mesh well with illness. This coupled with the rumors of personal problems with a certain young navigator, made her believe that he was due for a few days off. She had finally forced him to accept a scan after he had passed out in the middle sickbay during a routine checkup on one of the few pregnant women onboard. One second he was preparing a prenatal vitamin hypo and the next he was on the floor. McCoy was not one to do anything half-way and had fallen hard, hitting his head with a nasty cracking sound. He came to a few minutes later, spewing obscenities and trying to grab the tricorder from Christine's hands.

"Doctor M'Benga can look you over more thoroughly if you like, no stop it." She smacked his hand away from the scanner. "You should not be self-assessing, though it looks like you have that nasty strain of that space flu that is spreading around the ship. I think you should probably stay overnight so that we can keep track of your fluid intake." She rolled her eyes at the scowl this pronouncement induced. He really was a horrible patient. Normally she could work with his cynicism and barked orders as he was damn good at his job and expected his staff to be the best as well. When he was sick, though, he lost all rational thought and absolutely loved to lash out at whoever was nearest.

Chapel was going to make sure that person wasn't her and surreptitiously included a mild sedative in the hypospray she administered. It would help him sleep, she reasoned, when her conscience nagged at her. She drew the curtain around his biobed and dimmed the lights before she left. She would check on him in a few hours—he should sleep at least that long.

* * *

McCoy woke up disoriented two hours later. His head was throbbing from thwacking it on the hard floor and from that sedative Chapel thought she had been so sneaky in including in his medicine. He was amused that she thought he wouldn't see through her guise, especially when he had been sneaking sedatives in hyposprays to use on Jim for years, but had decided to humor her. It had been a rough couple of days, and not just from the flu he had managed to catch, regardless of the many hypos he had given himself in preparation for flu season. No, if he stopped to think about, his horrible mood was caused by one very young, almost too-young ensign.

God, Chekov.

His chest hurt a little thinking of him, and not in the needing-to-cough sort of way it had been before his forced nap. Their argument had been over a week ago, but that was the last time he had seen the kid. No, not kid. That terminology had started the fight in the first place.

"You're too young for me, kid." He knew he had to say it at the time, even though he could see Chekov's shoulders tense for a fight, just like when they sparred together in the rec room. Or when McCoy pushed deeply into him. His shoulders would tense up then and-

"Kid? I am not kid. I would, in my limited experience as you like to say, think that maybe you are too young for me."

He had barked out a laugh at that. "Me too young? How would you say that?"

"Maybe I should be with someone who has a more mature emotional capacity that you seem to not have." His face, normally so chipper, had taken on a grim look that McCoy did not think belonged there. The fact that the look was caused by him was one more reason why they were so wrong for each other "You are too young."

"Maybe I am. You could definitely do better than me," he had said, done with this argument that he knew he had caused. They had stood there staring at each other, both of their shoulders tense now. Then he had walked out of Chekov's quarters without a glance back, almost feeling the weight of the kid's disappointment in him and the things he could not say.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to rehash the past. It was better this way, he told himself. Besides, Chekov had moved on; he had not bothered to see him since they had last spoken. Maybe he had found someone with that maturity he so wanted. The doctor's fists clenched at that thought.

A ray of light fell on his face and he opened his eyes in confusion.

"Sorry—I thought you were asleep, doctor." Chekov said this oh-so properly, not letting his emotions show on his face.

McCoy did not say anything, still a little surprised that he had sought him out and not sure how to start the needed conversation.

Chekov nervously went on after a minute of awkward silence. "Nurse Chapel said you were sick—I can leave if you want." He turned as if to do so.

"Pavel, wait." The young man's back was once against tense, still turned away from him, but not moving out of the curtained area. "Stay. Sit down." He added, "if you like."

He perched on the bed next to him, not touching, but acting like he wanted to. They sat like this for a while, not speaking, just staring at one another. They generally spent most nights together, so this break from touching and seeing had been a strain.

"I miss—"

"I'm sorry—"

They laughed as they spoke at the same time, Chekov's laugh rather relieved and McCoy's hoarse from coughing. Not emotion; he was sick, damn it.

"C'mere." He grabbed Pavel's hand and pulled him down next to him. Pavel curled around him, lithe body easily fitting into the small bed around the bigger man. McCoy had his eyes closed against the dim light and his throbbing headache, but could feel questing fingers stroking his hair and investigating the injuries from his earlier tumble to the floor. A wiry warm arm wrapped around his chest and his cheek rubbed against soft curls as Chekov moved his face back and forth against his neck. Eventually, he stilled, content that McCoy was indeed alright and willing to hold him contrary to his grumbles about being a doctor and not a cuddle toy.

McCoy fell into the needed healing sleep again, this time without sedatives.

* * *

Christine drew the curtain back a while later to check on her grouchy patient, hypospray full of another dose of medicine in her hand. She barely stopped herself from making a surprised gasp when she discovered Chekov's limbs wrapped snugly around McCoy's body. They were both asleep, but the sound of the curtain moving caused the ensign to shift a little around McCoy, and then settle back with his arms more firmly clasped. He was positioned with his back to the curtain opening, as if he was trying to protect the doctor from any source of danger or intrusion.

She bit her lip to keep from sighing from that realization and then found a blanket to cover the pair. She would administer the medicine in the morning when Chekov went on shift. No need to disturb them now.

Leaving the sickbay, she felt a smile grow on her face; although, if questioned, she would completely deny the real reason it was there.


End file.
